Eventually Dimity said, “Lady Linette, I don’t mean to be ignorant, but what, exactly, is the unspoken offer? I mean to say, how do I know if I don’t know, as it were?”
“Ah, yes, seduction. Have you read some of those horrid Gothics floating about? Oh, now, don’t be coy, I’ve seen copies of The Monk passing from hand to hand. It’s not forbidden, not at this school. Such an offer can encompass all things that men, as a general rule, require of women—from a kiss on the hand to one on the neck to the lips and beyond.”
Dimity’s eyes went owlish. “There’s a beyond?”
“Don’t interrupt, Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott. Where was I? Oh, yes. Then there is touching. A man may try to put his hands anywhere upon you, if you let him. A gentleman, of course, will ask first, but he will still try.”
“Anywhere?” squeaked Dimity.
“Anywhere,” said Lady Linette darkly.
“Oh, my.”
Sophronia giggled at Dimity’s awe. She herself was equipped with older brothers, several of whom attended university. Even before finishing school she had enjoyed eavesdropping on her family. As a result of indiscreet conversations between said brothers, she was rather more familiar with the intentions of young gentlemen than she ought to be. Apparently, gentlemen not only liked to kiss and touch women everywhere, they did that and more, on a regular basis, and mostly not with ladies at all, but with women of less genteel breeding. Some gentlemen, her brothers had whispered, even did it with each other. Although this was considered quite uncouth, Sophronia gathered, once one left Eton.
“Is that what the longing look is offering?” Dimity wanted to know.
“Generally speaking, yes. It is an invitation.”
“Oh, dear, rather powerful, isn’t it?”
Sophronia suspected Dimity would never look a man in the face again, for fear of issuing invitations.
“This is why you must master the differences among the three, not to mention the nature and length of the look itself. Facial expressions, my dears, can be thought of as part of one’s toilette. In fact, clothing can also transmit messages. Tight stays, for example, offer up to the gentleman the slenderness of one’s waist. Wouldn’t he like to put his hands about it? A low décolletage suggests that he might like to touch, just there.”
All the girls gasped. A few who were wearing dresses with low necklines surreptitiously tried to tug them up.
Sophronia found herself thinking of Felix Mersey. The young viscount had taken rather a shine to her, almost a year ago now, and they maintained a cautiously civil correspondence. The kind of correspondence no parent would sniff at. Although Sophronia’s mother might have had the vapors if she’d known her daughter was receiving missives from a duke’s son. Vapors of joy, mind you. Once or twice Sophronia had, rather desperately, searched between Felix’s brief lines of courteous discourse for something more. But Lord Mersey either hadn’t it in him to pen words of love, or had lost his taste for Sophronia after her Westminster Hive infiltration. In which case, his letters were mere formality from a gentleman who would not be so rude as to break off a courtship via the written word. Sophronia suspected the latter. After all, it would shake any gentleman’s regard to find the object of his affection dressed as a male dandy and cavorting about with a chimney sweep.
Not that Sophronia was at all sure she wanted such attentions from Lord Mersey. His father was a Pickleman. She had come to like some of the supernatural set, all of whom, she knew in her heart, the Picklemen would happily see dead. As much as she admired Felix’s slouch and overconfident flirtations, how could she reconcile his politics with her dislike of his father’s secret society?
Nevertheless, Sophronia found herself daydreaming about the upcoming masquerade. She’d written to Felix of the momentous occasion, more for something to say than in the hope that anything should come of it. But, of course, he’d managed to wangle himself an invitation—after all, he was training to be an evil genius and his father was a duke. If I wear a low-cut gown, she wondered, will Felix want to touch my décolletage? And do I want to lure him in because I think I may have lost him? Or do I want him for himself? He does have very nice eyes. And his waistcoat is always well fitted.
Sophronia cocked her head, considering. And would I want him to kiss me and more? Her pulse raced and she had to consciously slow her breathing so Lady Linette would not notice. It’s amazing that there are such possibilities inherent in just a longing look. Men really are weak willed.
Lady Linette stopped the looks and returned to instruction. “What were we discussing?”
“Um, touching,” said Preshea, in an unusually meek tone.
“Oh, yes. He may also wish to kiss there.”
“What, the décolletage?” Dimity squeaked.
“Quite often.”
Sophronia, thinking of her brothers’ lewd talk, asked, “And elsewhere?”
Lady Linette smiled. “Well, yes, the very best ones like to kiss all over.”
Most of the girls inhaled in shock, and then began asking questions all at once. What did it feel like? Was it nice or was it damp? After touching and kissing, what happened? And could this really all start with simply staring directly into a man’s face at a ball?
Agatha looked as if she would like to faint. Dimity’s cheeks were rosy with embarrassment, but she was utterly enthralled. Sophronia hated to admit it, but so was she.
Lady Linette held up a hand as the wave of curiosity crashed over her. Had she been a more sensitive individual, like Sister Mattie, she might have been embarrassed by the unladylike enthusiasm. But Lady Linette was an expert in manipulation, and if knowledge of connubial relations would arm her girls better in how to infiltrate society, then she would deliver unto them the necessary.
“Calm down, ladies, do. Let us practice a few more initial seduction techniques, and discuss more on the consequences later. We are all a little overwrought at the moment. Suffice it to say that you must remember all the rules of polite society. No more than two dances with the same gentleman. No longer than the space of a dance and a half hour in one man’s company. Do not walk out with a male alone, especially not to the conservatory, unless you are related. The goal is always to keep yourself safe from ruin or accusations thereof. After you have mastered the initial looks, we will move on to the seduction itself, and the boundaries that you must keep in place to protect your reputation. I will discuss how to employ canoodles and of which variety, without being caught. We may even study some light anatomy. Anything more than that, I hope you all understand, is reserved for the marriage bed. It is your mother’s responsibility to explain such details of that situation to you as she sees fit.”
An audible sigh of disappointment met this statement.
The girls then spent a most enjoyable hour practicing longing looks without any true understanding of what might result. It wasn’t all that different from the entirety of their education at the academy. In a strange way, it was like practicing to kill someone with a bladed fan when one had yet to experience any actual act of assassination. Sophronia found herself more worried about how to respond to an imagined Felix kiss—the amount of pressure, what if there was excess saliva, where to put one’s hands?—than she was about dealing out death. Although the concerns were oddly similar—amount of pressure, what if there was excess blood, how to keep one’s gloves clean?
Of course, Sophronia had kissed Soap. Or more precisely, Soap had kissed her. Which had managed to be both comforting and unsettling. She didn’t like to think about her friend in that way. Although, when she let herself, Sophronia was all too apt to ruminate upon Soap’s kiss. It had been a very nice kiss. And she hadn’t worried about pressure or saliva or her hands; Soap had taken care of all of it. He was like that. Felix would be different. So very publicly suitable, a duke’s son, yet so very politically unsuitable, that duke’s son. Sophronia admitted to titillation; Felix was a challenge.
Sophronia shook off thoughts of both boys, which wasn’t easy w
hen practicing seduction. Thinking of Soap, she found, turned her longing gaze into one of frustration and puzzlement. And thinking of Felix made Dimity, her partner, come over very fidgety.
“Sophronia, don’t look at me like that!”
“Like what?”
“All wistful, it makes me uncomfortable.”
“Isn’t that the point?”
“I don’t know, is it? Lady Linette, please come assess Sophronia’s look. I think she’s executing it wrong.”
Lady Linette duly came over and Sophronia duly looked at her and thought of Felix.
Lady Linette blinked back at her, impassive. “No, I think that is rather good. Perhaps a bit too much of an offer, Miss Temminnick. Can you tone it down slightly?”
Sophronia tried to think of both Felix and Soap at once.
“Oh, dear me, no, dear. No. Better the first time. Keep practicing.”
Sophronia tried again.
Preshea said, “Ooooh, Sophronia, who are you thinking about?” Exchanging smug glances with a few of her cronies, she added, “I wager we can guess.”
When Sophronia did not answer, Preshea added, “And how is our dear Lord Mersey?” There was an edge of bitterness to the sly question. She had rather fancied the young viscount for herself. Miss Preshea Buss was so pretty, she resented that he seemed so concentrated on plain, brown Sophronia.
Sophronia replied, blandly, “He’s well, thank you for asking. Should I tender your regards?” The implication being, of course, that she had the right of correspondence when Preshea did not.
Preshea tossed her glossy black curls. “No, thank you. Besides, you’ll see him before another letter gets through.”
“Indeed I will, at my brother’s soiree.” Sophronia’s tone was deceptively mild. “With ample time for conversation, as he has already requested the dinner dance.”
At which every girl in the room glanced at her with envy. Sophronia hadn’t meant to antagonize the whole class. She’d only meant to use the social cachet to quiet Preshea.
“Ladies, a little less gossip, a little more longing looks!” reprimanded their teacher. “Sophronia, you might consider your choice of escort with better care in the future. Lord Mersey is not on the agenda for a marriage of infiltration, and Picklemen do not make good patrons.” Sophronia was duly chastised.
The others got back to it, giggling softly among themselves.
Dimity asked Sophronia, “Did he really ask you for the dinner?”
“No, but he will.”
“Are you sure? I thought you were afraid you’d lost him.”
Sophronia fanned out her gloved hands in a gesture of dismissal. “Perhaps, but not to Preshea, I haven’t! Besides, he’s still interested enough to come to my family’s masquerade. Although that could be because as a gentleman he can only politely break off with me in person.”
Dimity nodded her understanding. “If you learn these seduction lessons well, you might be able to keep him. Despite Lady Linette’s opinion, I think he’s a delicious prospect. For fun, if nothing else. I should like to see you try.”
Sophronia firmed up her spine. “You’re right! Let’s practice.”
They tried diligently for the next twenty minutes. Sophronia wished for Sidheag. She was very good on the subject of understanding the male psyche, having grown up in a werewolf pack, all of them soldiers, not to mention visits with the rest of the regiment regularly. Her knowledge was far more complete than Sophronia’s bits of gleaned gossip from indiscreet brothers.
At the end of the lesson, Dimity and Agatha scuttled off, eager to return to their private chambers, hoping that Sidheag would be waiting there, pigeon crisis averted. Dimity carried Sophronia’s hurlie safely stashed in her reticule, out of Lady Linette’s clutches.
That good lady rarely forgot anything. “Well, Miss Temminnick, give it to me.”
“Lady Linette?”
“The unregistered wrist claw thing you used to save yourself earlier this evening.”
Sophronia pulled back her sleeves, showing the bandage on one side and the complete absence of the hurlie on the other. “I’m afraid I lost it in that very scrabble. You see, I had to leave it behind, hooked on, in order to get through the hatch.”
Lady Linette was skeptical.
Sophronia stood quietly, no elaboration that might give away the lie, no excess blinking that might betray a direct falsehood. She was applying, with great expertise, every one of the lessons that Lady Linette herself had taught her.
“Sometimes, Miss Temminnick, I worry that we are training you too well.”
“Is that possible, Lady Linette?”
“I don’t know. I suppose in the end it will ride on where your loyalties lie.”
“I suppose it will.”
“Where do they lie, Miss Temminnick? You are what, sixteen now? Old enough to marry. Old enough to leave this school, should your parents wish it.”
“I haven’t learned everything yet.”
“Nor have you finished properly. That is not the point.”
“What is the point?”
“You are old enough to know your own mind. Whose patronage will you undertake? Queen and country, supernatural, Picklemen? Will you follow your training in the pursuit of our ends, or those of your beau?”
“And what of my own wishes?”
Lady Linette was not so foolish as to answer that. “Or the vampire who sends you gifts?”
“Reading my mail, Lady Linette? How gauche. I guess the answer to your question is, I don’t know yet.” Sophronia felt emboldened. “I like this school but not the potentate, although working for queen and country seems no bad thing.”
“The one is tied to the other, I’m afraid.” Lady Linette seemed genuinely contrite, either because of the potentate himself—who did have a regrettable personality—or the fact that Queen Victoria’s government had so fully integrated the supernatural element.
“That is the difficulty, isn’t it? Right now my vampire friend’s gifts, I must own, are attractive. Although not my vampire friend himself,” Sophronia replied.
Lady Linette was looking at Sophronia with more respect than she had ever shown before. “He is not so bad a choice. We would be sad to lose you, but he could absolutely afford your indenture. Although he is a vampire; he might want something extra for it.”
Sophronia felt almost like an equal. What, she wondered, had just happened in that class to cause this shift in her own social standing with her teacher? Whatever it was, she hoped to capitalize on it. She rather enjoyed the novelty of garnering respect from an adult. So she accessed her training and responded as it dictated.
“When I have made up my mind, Lady Linette, you’ll be the first to know.” Well, after Dimity, Agatha, Sidheag, and Soap. And Bumbersnoot. Bumbersnoot will have to be included in any of my future plans.
“Very considered response, Miss Temminnick. A word of warning: you can’t change him, Miss Temminnick.”
“Who? My vampire friend or my Pickleman beau?”
“Yes.” Then, in one of her rapid switches of topic, designed—they had all learned—to unsettle an opponent, Lady Linette said, “Where is Lady Kingair, Miss Temminnick?”
“Unwell,” said Sophronia, instinctually covering for her friend’s absence.
“Oh, indeed, and what form of illness has afflicted her? She’s customarily so hardy.”
When fibbing, always stick as close to the truth as possible. “Of the sentimental variety. She had a letter that quite overset her.”
Lady Linette’s expression changed. So much so that Sophronia wondered if she knew the contents of Sidheag’s letter. Had she intercepted a private pigeon before it reached its intended target? Highly illegal, of course, worse than reading Lord Akeldama’s notes, but Lady Linette was an intelligencer. She did more illegal things before tea each day than most people did in a lifetime.
The teacher said, “Understandable sentiment, I suppose. But I expect to see her at supper, otherwise I w
ill send matron. Perhaps she is in need of laudanum to settle her nerves.”
“Very good, Lady Linette. I will let her know.”
With which Sophronia escaped, gliding down the passageway as quickly as her skirts would allow.
Sidheag had not returned, not that they could conceive of a way for her to do so without being found out. The school was, after all, floating midair and very high up. In deference to the presence of Preshea; her new chamber-mate, Frenetta; and a gaggle of other girls, the three friends retreated to Sophronia and Dimity’s room. Bumbersnoot was delighted to see them. The little mechanimal trundled about tooting smoke out his ears and puffing steam from below his carapace. His tail tick-tocked back and forth and Agatha, despite Sophronia’s admonishments not to spoil him, fed the metal dog torn scraps of a brown paper bag that had once held sweets.
“What will we do if she is out all night, alone, with a werewolf?” Dimity was upset by the very idea.
“He’s a teacher, surely that counts for something?” protested Agatha.
“He’s not a relative. If word gets out, her reputation will be in ruins.” Dimity was probably correct in this assumption. “Didn’t we just learn that a young lady should never be alone with a gentleman for any length of time? Do the other teachers know she is with him?”
Sophronia said, “I don’t think so. Lady Linette just asked me where she was.”
Dimity swallowed. “That is not good.”
“Worse, she only has until supper to reappear. Matron’s coming by to check.”
“Then what will we do? Pillows in the bed won’t work on matron. None of us looks enough like Sidheag to pull a wig-and-switch, either.” Dimity wasn’t the best intelligencer, but some of the training had stuck.
Waistcoats & Weaponry Page 4
